


Coming Home Again

by Her_Madjesty



Series: To and Fro - Bicolline [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - LARP, Blue Lions! Byleth, F/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Reincarnation, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Tension, don't worry it's temporary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24009973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: Byleth is well-acquainted with battlefields. This scene is hardly a new one.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: To and Fro - Bicolline [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751797
Comments: 19
Kudos: 66
Collections: The Golden Gifts - Claudeleth Fic/Art Exchange





	Coming Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry this is late! Happy Claudeleth Exchange, Aly! This fic grew out of control, and I had to shorten it or else be even later with delivery. I had a great time filling your prompts, and I hope I managed to hit all of them here!
> 
> For broader reference: Bicolline is a LARP/interactive battle event that takes place every year in Quebec, Canada. One of the best reference videos I found was [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ItWgkXAl7ik&t=651s). Do note, though, that I embellished for creative purposes.
> 
> Also: there's a bit of Google Translate French in this piece - hover over the text, and you'll have a better idea of what folks are saying! Apologies to anyone who actually speaks French, and Canadian French, specifically. I wanted "accuracy" in my already-embellished fanfiction.

Byleth is well-acquainted with battlefields. This scene is hardly a new one.

She stands in a valley between rolling hills while fighting rages on around her. She shoves the hair out of her face as she downs another enemy, knocking them back and away from her battalion. The Sword of the Creator is heavy in her hands, even as she lungs forward again. Ahead of her, she can just barely see the fort she’s meant to conquer. Its high towers are already lined with archers, and so many of them have their bows pointed at her.

But just there, there’s the gate – a wave of enemies, fast approaching – the sound of her battalion roaring in her ears -

Byleth jolts. An arrow smacks against her shoulder, then falls harmlessly to the ground.

“Down one arm, General!” shouts one of the women in her battalion, picking up the arrow where it’s fallen. The sandbag blunting the end droops to one side.

Byleth swears.

All around her, the first match in le Grande Bataille de Bicolline rages on.

Byleth shakes out of her daze, then plunges towards into the crowd. Around her, LARPers from six continents push towards the gates of Ordo Cervi. Beyond the fort, they’ll find the LARPer’s camp – and if they’re lucky, they’ll quickly take it for themselves.

Byleth dodges another arrow and picks her friends out in the crowd. There’s Annette, hanging back with the other mages to cast spells at any enemies who would make it through the crush. There’s Mercedes, passing out water with Ingrid as her shield. She knows Sylvain and Felix are somewhere in the worst of the fighting, Sylvain with his lance and Felix with his sword. Byleth looks to the tower and sees Ashe clambering up the side, an arrow in his teeth and his bow in his free hand.

And from the front of the pack comes a familiar cry. Byleth cranes her head in time to see Dimitri drive his lance into the chest of an unsuspecting soldier, with Dedue and his shield not far behind. The two tear forward together, slamming into the gates of Ordo Cervi with enough strength to rock the whole of the fort.

Byleth nearly smiles.

It won’t be long, she knows, before the gates to the fort fall. She slows her charge forward, stabbing the armpit of an Ordo soldier as she continues forward. Ordo Cervi is one of the older guilds at Bicolline, its buildings handcrafted by the attendees who’d fallen in love with their slice of history. Her own guild, Crête de Feu, will pay them the respect they deserve – while looting, plundering, and gently harassing the few attendees who’d opted to sit out the battle.

It’s all a part of the game, after all.

As she approaches, the gates to Ordo Cervi fall. Crête de Feu’s soldiers charge forward, even as the battle itself gives way to revelry. Ordo’s soldiers are retreating, and in the distance, she can see the camp’s bright banner pass into the hands of one of her own men.

“We did it!” Annette shouts as she runs past, grinning back at Byleth even as the fleet of mages carries on. Byleth waves at her, slowing to a walk as the fort gives way to buildings and the noise of battle gives way to laughter.

She’s not tired, per say, but the adrenaline of the fight is already starting to fade. She pauses by one of Ordo’s buildings – the Ruffian, with all of its fine coffee – and straps her foam sword to her back in a moment of almost-quiet. Someone ahead has broken out a lute, and even the beaten Ordo fighters are beginning to fall into the swing of post-battle merriment.

It’s a scene almost distracting enough to excuse her lapse in attention. Byleth smiles, ready to move forward – and then a hand comes down on her shoulder.

In the moment, it doesn’t worry her. It’s only when the hand starts to drag her backwards that Byleth realizes she should be panicking.

“Non, non, non!” A hand covers her mouth before she can scream. Byleth jolts her elbow backwards and comes into contact with hard leathers. Normally, the rules of battle would dictate a point in her favor, but the battle is well and truly over – and whoever this is clearly doesn’t mean to play fair.

“Bonjour, cher general,” says a voice from behind her. “Nous avons le consentement, oui?” 

Byleth grunts out her consent, even as she slams her elbow into armor again. She gets a series of swears for her efforts, punctuated only by chuckles. A strong arm catches her own as it flies and wrenches it behind her back.

She wrestles with her unknown captor, even as her curiosity grows. Slowly, the fort and camp of Ordo Cervi disappear into the treeline, and her captor’s footsteps are joined by many others.

Finally, as the hills give way to forest, she’s brought to a stop. The hand on her arm releases, and Byleth whirls, reaching for her sword.

For a split second, she’s almost blinded by the shock of yellow that greets her. Her captor wears a truly stunning display – a black uniform utterly done up in yellow accents, with a cape hung delicately across his shoulders. Even his boots, which should, at this point, be a dirty brown, bear the same bright yellow.

How he managed to sneak up on her entire army, she’ll never know.

Throughout her startled inspection, a slow grin spreads across his face. When Byleth finally meets his gaze, though, it’s to find that it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Parlez-vous francais?” he asks.

“Un peu.”

Her captor laughs. The noise brings half a dozen others melting out of the trees, all of them adorned in colors almost too bright to stand. Byleth squints, then lets her sword arm drop to her side.

“That is a lie,” her captor calls, switching over to accented English. When he looks at her again, she knows him more readily – or, at least, she’s heard of him.

There are only so many men at Bicolline, after all, who cultivate smiles that cold and bright.

“General Von Riegan,” she says, inclining her head. “And Le Cerf D’or.”

That earns her a few giggles, even as the man himself shakes his head. “Non, non – it’s Lord Von Riegan this year.”

“They promoted you?”

Von Riegan’s smile sharpens before he dons a mournful mask. “Ah, you don’t keep tabs on me? My dear demone des cendres, you’ll break my fragile heart.”

It’s the use of her title – Ashen Demon – that clues her into the scene. Byleth shifts her stance and smooths out her features, though in truth, that’s no hardship.

“I suppose that is fine,” Von Riegan continues, waving a dismissive hand in her direction. “But I have been keeping my eye on you, demone. Are you truly content to remain a general, even with all your years of experience?”

“I fear I don’t have the constitution for lordship,” Byleth replies. “What do you want?”

This gets her another grin – and it’s familiar, in its own way; Byleth frowns as it tugs at something in her chest.

“So direct! Perhaps you are right; lordship requires more delicacy than I believe you bear.” Claude pulls an arrow out of his quiver – adorned with the Bicolline-standard sandbag, though this one’s been dyed yellow – and starts to twirl it between his fingers. “Mon demone des cendres, I was wondering if you didn’t want to stretch your legs a little? Share Crête de Feu’s dirty secrets so another guild can have a chance at winning the big battle this year?”

Ah. So that’s his game. Byleth knows that, even though Crête de Feu is fairly new to Bicolline, they’ve been making waves across the battlefields for years. They’re the front-runner for this year’s Grand Bataille and have thus been challenged by nearly every other guild in attendance.

Every guild, that is, save for Le Cerf D’or, who seems to have had another plan in mind.

“You know it’s against the rules to willfully betray my guild, mon Seigneur,” Byleth says, watching her captor’s face for any ticks or twitches.

Unfortunately (or not), he disappoints her. “Ah, then I suppose we shall have to do this unwillfully. Let me pose this another way: you’ll be working with us for the next few days.” He crouches, here, and drops the air of utter confidence to look her in the face. “That is,” he says, voice lower, “so long as madame pleases.”

Byleth knows what this is – one LARPer checking in with another – but it still stirs something low in her belly. She looks over this boy – man – with greater care. The energy between them – it’s familiar, but she can’t place when or where they would have met before.

It’s interesting. For the first time in a long time, it’s a thread she wants to chase.

But her silence drags on for a minute too long. Von Riegan’s expression falters.

Byleth moves on impulse – a strange drive forcing her hand, but she has an urge, almost undeniably, to wipe that expression from his face. She doesn’t speak, but she’s quick to press the hilt of her sword into his hands.

Von Riegan’s eyes go wide. He looks at her, really looks at her – then shutters whatever he’s feeling behind an impenetrable, if jovial, stare.

In a moment, he’s back at his full height, and Byleth’s left wrong-footed.

“Merveilleuse!” he says, holding her sword like a prize. “Hilda, mon cher, please escort mon demone de cendres back to our camp. Mon demone, if you have anything from Crête de Feu that you’d like us to procure, please do not hesitate to ask.”

He walks away without so much as a backwards glance, leaving Byleth fumbling – are they still playing? She goes to follow him, but there’s a burst of pink hair in front of her almost immediately.

“God, he’s pretentious, isn’t he?” asks the woman she assumes to be Hilda. She looks utterly out of place among the mud and trees, her pink pigtails dotted with white flowers from the hills just beyond the camps. “Ignore him; I’m Hilda! It really is lovely to meet you, though I wish we could’ve under better circumstances.”

“...thanks,” Byleth says, her brow furrowing. She watches as the rest of Le Cerf D’or start to fall in step behind their lord – and really, they are a wash of color. A man with long, purple hair falls into step beside Von Riegan, while a lancer in orange and an archer in green wait for Hilda to catch up.

“No problem, I guess,” Hilda continues. Even as they begin to walk together, Byleth lets her keep one of her arms pressed behind her back. “I mean, I wish Mr. Leader Man hadn’t pinned me with, ya know, the work of keeping you down, but I did really want a chance to talk with you. Is it true that you’d never LARPed before coming to Bicolline?”

It is true – before she’d learned about the Voyage North, Byleth had only considered LARPing in passing. It had been the founding members of the now Crête de Feu that had convinced her to take the trip along with The Voyage North. They’d had their fun in Ordo Cervi, then built their own guild from the ground up. Storming that old camp had been like coming home again – though at the same time, it’d been a true declaration of their independence. Even as Grande Bataille frontrunners, the lord – Dimitri – had insisted that they needed to prove themselves. When that drive found itself wedded to Ordo Cervi’s declaration of war, well – there hadn’t been any choice in the matter.

Does she say this? No. But Byleth knows the power of small talk and is willing to divulge a little, given Hilda’s easy camaraderie. She knows it’s part-play, what with the girl’s calculating smiles, but it feels good to ease back into herself as they leave Crête de Feu far behind.

The walk between the captured camp and Old Town doesn’t take too long. Byleth can see Crête de Feu’s blue and white tents up on the hills in New Town. Le Cerf D’or’s own tents are closer to the fae camp, done up in yellow and black. Lord Von Riegan and his team are greeted with cheers as they return. Hilda, still chatty, loosens her grip on Byleth’s arm, but it stays behind her back as they march through the tents and towards the lord’s chambers – a semi-permanent log shelter done up with drapes and ivy. The higher-level members of the guild come to walk beside them.

Within minutes, Lord Von Riegan has called a meeting of the guild. Byleth stands near the back of Le Cerf D’or’s dining tent and watches as all of the more colorful members of the guild, plus a few extra, come together to discuss her position as guild captive.

From the front of the chamber, Lord Von Riegan catches her eye. She sees him grin and feels that same familiar fondness thrum in her chest. Byleth does her best not to let it show on her face – she has, after all, just met this man, and been captured by him, no less.

Even so, she can’t help but pay attention as he starts to speak.

The meeting is carried out in French, of course. She picks up every third word, but doesn’t let her attention drift. The role play Le Cerf D’or carries out is clearly more in-depth than her own work with Crête de Feu.

It turns out, she’s distracted enough by the motion of Von Riegan’s hands that she almost misses the decision on her fate.

“For the demone's sake,” Von Riegan says, at last, switching back to English. “Two hours in the stocks, for appearance’s sake. Afterwards, the freedom to move through our camp as she wishes, so long as she makes no attempt to flee back to le Crête de Feu. In exchange, conversation – and details on Crête de Feu’s movements in the coming Grande Bataille.”

All eyes turn to Byleth.

This is the tricky part. Byleth knows that, were she to say no, Le Cerf D’or would let her go back to Crête de Feu almost immediately. Almost, of course – she would have to give them the information they asked for, as per the rules, but she wouldn’t have to stay or go through their rituals.

There are plenty of reasons for her to do just that, too. For one, her things are still at camp, and the nights at Bicolline are cold. She’s also loathed to turn the tide on her friends, especially as they try to establish themselves as a guild worth acknowledging.

Still…

Le Cerf D’or are intriguing. Their role play is complex, their camp comfortable, and their Lord unusually familiar. Byleth frowns and crosses her arms, poking at that connection in her mind.

He’s staring at her now, hands folded in front of his mouth, eyes patient but determined.

“So be it,” she says.

The mood in the tent lightens almost immediately. Le Cerf D’or cheer, and a few of the members even slap Byleth on the back. She finds herself having to hide her answering smile, while across the tent, Lord Von Riegan’s eyes glow bright.

“Then it’s settled,” he calls, rising to his feet. “Madame Demone, take a few minutes to get comfortable in our camp. Find yourself some food and water – I know you had a long fight. Once you’re ready, we’ll get started.”

Byleth inclines her head, taking his words as a dismissal. It confuses her, then, that as the members of Le Cerf D’or disperse, he comes to walk beside her.

“You’re a good sport about all of this,” he says, dropping the pretense of formality. Byleth glances up at him – and the cool calculation is still there in his eyes, but he’s friendlier.

It’s unique,” Byleth admits. “I’ve never been captured before.”

“From what I hear, captures don’t happen too often,” Von Riegan admits. “I wanted to experiment with my options this year, though. With Crête de Feu making such a name for itself, I wanted to see just how much of an influence you had throughout the guild. Even if,” he adds, “you are just a general.”

Despite herself, Byleth snorts. It gets a glimmer of a real smile from the mysterious lordling, but he’s quick to tuck it aside in favor of a playful one.

“I didn’t know I’d be expected to reveal my secrets so quickly,” Byleth says. “You said I was welcome to lunch first, was I not?”

“Oh, I suppose.” Von Riegan lets out a sigh. “But I’ll just have to keep you company. Can’t have you going back on your promise, now can I?”

Though his tone his light, Byleth can tell that he’s serious. She looks up at him, meeting his gaze as his step falters on the road.

“You’re not used to people keeping their word, are you?” she asks.

Von Riegan frowns, and their conversation...lags.

Even so, he matches her step for step as she starts back down the road.

She makes her way to one of the vendors who’s settled between Old and New Town. Von Riegan steps in and pays for her onion and poppy seed bread loaf, but graciously lets her pay for her own water. They don’t speak, but Byleth breaks her loaf in half and readily passes some over. Their fingers brush in the exchange – and there it is again, that familiar tug, like they’ve done this dance before.

Von Riegan takes the peace offering for what it is, squinting down at her all the while.

Byleth pays him no mind, too busy sorting out her own thoughts to make sense of his cryptic looks.

They make their way back to camp, after that, the silence between them a little friendlier. Von Riegan doesn’t leave her side, even as members of his guild approach to talk. Byleth overhears more than she probably should about Le Cerf D’or’s operations. They may not have come north on a package deal, like she first did, but it’s clear that Le Cerf D’or has had to fight just as hard for proper recognition as Crête de Feu has – maybe even harder.

“I see why you’re so keen for help,” Byleth says around a mouthful of bread. The bespeckled archer from earlier jogs away from the both of them, having just finished a brief conversation with Von Riegan about the rest of the week’s hall supplies.

“Ah, you know how it goes,” Von Riegan says with a shrug. “Win le Grande Bataille, and the guild gets more popular. Our online resources grow, we have more hands to help maintain them, and come next year, our tents may be nicer.”

Byleth hums.

Von Riegan glances at her, sidelong. “Crête de Feu must feel much the same way.”

Ahead of them, Byleth can see members of the Le Cerf D’or crew preparing the stocks for her arrival. “I wouldn’t know,” she replies, though it may be less than honest. “I am, after all, just a general.”

Von Riegan huffs, somewhere between amused and annoyed. He looks ahead and waves to the guild members setting up her temporary home.

“After your time is up, come find me, won’t you?” he asks. “Unless, of course, you have other plans.”

“I didn’t know I was allowed to have plans, your lordship.”

Von Riegan’s laugh is dangerously close to genuine, and Byleth feels it again – a shock back to a different time, where she saw this man’s composure break just as beautifully.

“Please,” he says as she comes back to herself. “Call me Claude.”

On impulse, Byleth holds out her hand to shake. “Byleth.”

Before she has time to protest, Von Riegan – Claude – flips her hand with a gentle touch and presses a kiss to her knuckles. Despite her battlefield reputation as a stone-cold killer – and her own legendary composure – Byleth feels her cheeks start to warm.

“Your tent, Madame Byleth,” says the lord, directing her towards the stocks. Out of the corner of her eye, Byleth sees a flash a pink – and right on time, there’s Hilda, covering her mouth to bite back a giggle.

Byleth sighs.

With the regal air of a queen, she steps up to the stocks and lets one of Le Cerf D’or’s members lock her in.

“Will I get my sword back when this is done?” she calls as Claude starts to step away.

He looks back at her and grins. The sword may not be on him, but Byleth sees his hand flex at his side. “I’ll watch over it myself,” he says, a non-answer. “In the meanwhile, we’ll get in touch with a representative from Crête de Feu. Perhaps if you are unwilling to share their secrets, they’ll give us something worthwhile in exchange for you.”

“You may try, mon Seigneur,” she says – and oh, did his eyes darken? No, she blinks; the sun’s just riding low in the sky, and he’s shifting to look at her properly. “But Crête de Feu is made of stronger stuff than you may think.”

Claude tsks at her – a performative tick, but one that she’s growing fond of. “Madame demone,” he says, coming up to cup her face in his hand. “Of that I have no doubt.”

With that, he turns his back on her again. Byleth watches him walk away, perpetual confusion nagging at the back of her brain.

The rest of Le Cerf D’or stay by her side for a short while, idly chatting in and out of character. Before long, though, it’s just Byleth, Hilda, and a younger woman with a shock of white hair.

“You know, you don’t have to let him boss you around like that,” says the younger woman, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“He is your lord,” Byleth says back, her voice dry. “And don’t worry – he asked permission. It’s alright.”

The younger woman snorts, but it’s Hilda who looks thoughtful. “Well that’s good of him,” she says. “Mandatory, I suppose – but better that he asked, if he’s gonna get handsy with you.”

Byleth cocks her head – or tries, but the stocks bear down her as she shifts. “Handsy?”

Hilda laughs, a pretty thing in the afternoon sun. “You think he’s all over every enemy that comes into camp? Nah – I think there’s something special about you.”

With that, Hilda settles down at her side, happy, it seems, to have a captive audience to talk about her day. Byleth listens and hums in the appropriate places, but her mind is elsewhere – following, apparently, the shock of golden cloth fluttering around Lord Von Riegan’s shoulders.

*

Her two hours in the stocks pass relatively uneventfully. After a while, Hilda flits off, chasing after a girl with pale blue hair. Some of the other Cerf D’or guild members come to visit, asking her polite question and engaging in small, non-aggressive scenes.

When two of the men from earlier come to unlock her – Raphael and Lorenz, she thinks they said their names were – Byleth’s only complaints are a sore back and a want for a glass of water.

“Of course Claude would prioritize his little scene over your needs,” Lorenz scoffs. “I enjoy a good bit of role play, too, but really.”

“Ah, come on!” Raphael says, bringing a hand down on Lorenz’s shoulder. “It’s all in the name of fun. And anyway, Ms. Byleth, thing’s will be more fun now that you’re one of us.”

“At least for the time being,” Lorenz mutters.

Byleth looks between the two of them, confused but amused by the easy banter. “Has anyone brought my things from Crête de Feu?”

“Ah, yes!” Lorenz replies. “That went about as well as you’d expect, given that you’ve been captured. We sent an honor guard along with Leonie, and she was able to bring your essentials.” He pauses, considering. “Apparently, your own lord wanted to come and confirm that you were well, but Leonie was able to...dissuade him.”

Byleth’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Lorenz looks back at her and nods. “It’s true. She’s a fierce one, that girl. She’s not court material, obviously, but she’s made her way through the ranks over the years.”

“I’d like to meet her,” Byleth admits. Anyone who could keep Dimitri from doing as he pleased was someone worth getting to know.

“You’ll get the chance,” Lorenz says. “You’re our guest, after all, and night’s coming on.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna go watch the monster fights!” Raphael says. “You should come with us!”

And this, Byleth thinks, is the magic of Bicolline. Where else can total strangers fall into routines like old friends? It’s...nice, if she’s honest; so much nicer than the suspicions and mistrusts of the real world.

“I’d like that,” she says, just before her guards part ways. “I’ll come find you?”

“Or we’ll find you,” Lorenz reassures her. “Now, off to your new tent! You’re in 26, sharing with Lysithea and Marianne. Look for blue or white hair.” He sniffs. “If nothing else, we do stand out in a crowd.”

Despite herself, Byleth chuckles. Raphael grins down at her, and Lorenz, for all of his fine manners, looks more at ease. Byleth bids the both of them goodbye, then starts to make her way through the camp.

It doesn’t take her long to find her new tent. Le Cerf D’or’s camp is roughly the same size as Crête de Feu’s, and she’s able to find her new companions near the edge of camp. The two girls – one, Lysithea, who she chatted with earlier – greet her warmly, chatting out of character as she stretches out her sore muscles.

“Leonie brought your things by,” says Marianne, the blue-haired young woman Hilda had been chasing after. “It didn’t look like you had a lot?”

Byleth shrugs. “A few outfits and some sleeping gear.” She frowns, then. “Where can I find Claude at this time of day? I think he still has my sword.”

Marianne and Lysithea exchange glances. “Good luck catching him at this time of day,” Lysithea sniffs. “He’s always running around and acting important.”

“I think I saw him head towards New Town,” Marianne says softly. “He didn’t say anything to us, though, just that we should give you your things, if you asked for them.”

Byleth frowns, but is quick to smooth out her expression as Marianne blushes. “I’ll find him later, then,” she says, moving further into the tent. “I’m sorry that role playing’s landed you with an unexpected roommate.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all!” Marianne insists, while Lysithea turns back to her things, almost bored.

*

The rest of the afternoon is...refreshing, for lack of a better term. Lysithea eventually drags both Byleth and Marianne out of their cozy tent, insisting on introducing Byleth to the rest of Le Cerf D’or. Leonie, when Byleth meets her, launches into an adoring and disturbingly detailed history of Byleth’s father’s experience as a historical re-enactor, which Byleth contributes to when she can get a word in, edgewise. She finds Raphael standing over a young man who introduces himself as Ignatz, who’s in the middle of re-fletching a game-approved bow for the next day’s battle.

They’re a welcoming guild, Byleth realizes, as much as any other at Bicolline. They may not know her, but they’re kind, reasonably well-organized, and indulgent when she feels like a duck out of water.

No one even mentions her more-than-abrupt kidnapping from Crête de Feu – that is, until she asks.

*

She’s with Leonie and Hilda when it finally comes up. The two women share a tent and, as the sun goes down, invite her to the dining tent for a light dinner. When Byleth broaches the subject, Leonie rolls her eyes, and Hilda stifles a giggle behind her hand.

“You mean you haven’t guessed?” she asks, lifting up a leg of roasted pheasant and taking a bite. “Mr. Leader Man’s been keen on getting his hands on you for a while now. He said he tried to email you, but you never responded?”

Byleth raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think I ever heard from him.”

“Even if you had, why would you answer?” scoffs Leonie. “He’s a complete stranger. At best, his message probably ended up in your spam.”

“But it’s not like he could get in touch with you any other way,” Hilda says, after she’s swallowed. “You’re not on social media, are you?”

Byleth shakes her head.

“Exactly! We looked at your guild online, too. Everyone knows you’re Crête de Feu’s general, but you don’t even have an account on the Bicolline website.” Hilda sighs and looks at Byleth with big, beseeching eyes. “How else was Leader Man supposed to get your attention? I don’t know a single girl who doesn’t like to be swept off her feet now and then.”

“I don’t know if I’d count ‘kidnapping’ as ‘sweeping,’” Byleth deadpans. Hilda laughs, and Leonie lets out of a huff.

“You’ve been nicer about it than I would’ve been,” Leonie says. “I don’t know if I’d put up with this kind of nonsense.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Hilda nods. “You did come pretty easily. Is something going wrong in Crête de Feu?”

Byleth opens her mouth – then hesitates. Hilda blinks at her, the picture of innocence, but it’s a leading question, at best.

Even so, Byleth feels compelled to answer. “Not in particular. I just...like the role play, I guess. We don’t do a lot of that.”

It’s not the whole truth, but she doesn’t know how to breach the whole of the truth yet – that Claude feels familiar in a way she can’t quite pin down, and she wants to know more.

She may not say it, but Hilda nods as though she understands. “I understand. Role play isn’t my thing, exactly, but Claude always gets right into it. He makes it easier for the rest of us, you know?”

Byleth hums and pokes at the rice on her plate. Hilda looks ready to say something else, but she drops it and, thankfully, changes the subject.

As they walk out of the dining tent, Leonie touches Byleth on the arm. “I think I saw your sword in Claude’s tent,” she says. “If you want to grab it, I’m sure he won’t mind. I don’t know where he is, exactly, but he’ll come back around by the time the monster fights start. He’s all about that ‘team bonding’ nonsense.”

She says it with a sniff, Byleth notices, but there’s a flush on her cheeks that gives her away. “I’m not sure I can get away with robbing the head of your guild,” she says. “But thank you.”

“It’s hardly robbing,” Leonie says as they part ways. “I think it’s more like fair play.”

Byleth hums under her breath as she heads off into the evening.

*

The whole of Le Cerf D’or comes alive in the night. Lanterns light about her head, illuminating the golds and blacks of the tents around her. Fires mark the most common paths, all of which wind back around to lead towards the guild leader’s tent. Byleth wanders for a while, nodding to the members she recognizes.

She doesn’t know what time it is – doesn’t like to bring her phone with her to these sorts of events. But as more people move towards the edge of the camp, she knows that Bicolline itself will soon be thrumming with noise from the monster fights and the music up in New Town.

It’s with that distraction in mind that she makes her move.

No one sees her approach the guild leader’s tent, not even in the light of the fire just outside of it. She hesitates for a moment, maybe less, at the front flap. Then, she steels herself and pushes inside.

In truth, the tent is no larger than hers at Crête de Feu, nor than Marianne and Lysithea’s. It is, however, nearly full to the brim. Claude has a low table in one corner adorned with a letter writing kit and several journals. She can see hair product and several clothing changes tucked just beneath it.

And there, right by his sleeping bag, is her sword. He’s wrapped a yellow scarf around the hilt and left it to hang above his pillow.

Byleth doesn’t linger on those implications. Instead, she moves.

Unwrapping the sword takes her longer than she’d like; Claude, it seems, is keen on his knots. The sounds of the camp outside keep her on her toes, but Byleth doesn’t stop, even as her pulse starts to pound. It’s her sword, after all. She may have given it to him in the heat of the moment, but that doesn’t mean it’s his to keep.

She shouldn’t feel guilty. No, not at all.

The sword slips free from its noose. Byleth cradles it, then signs, pressing it to her chest. She turns, ready to sneak out of the tent -

And there’s Claude Von Riegan, watching her with one eyebrow raised.

Byleth doesn’t stumble at the sight of him, but it’s a near thing.

The air...freezes. Time seems to stretch between the two of them, filling with silence as they each wait for the other person to speak.

Byleth considers – then doesn’t indulge him. Instead, she hefts her sword up onto her shoulder in a proper broadsword carry and shifts her weight onto one hip, patiently waiting for her companion to move out of the doorway.

This gets her a flicker of a smile, but it’s gone before she has more than a second to register it.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” Claude says, at last. “No one could find you on the way to the monster fights, so I came looking for you. Thought you’d run off there, for a little while.”

There’s hurt in his voice, but Byleth watches him closely. It’s not entirely an act, but the soft pout of his lip gives him away.

When she doesn’t respond, it wrong-foots him. He frowns at her, surprised. “Cat got your tongue?”

The urge to roll her eyes nearly overwhelms her. “Apologies for the delay,” she says, taking a step forward. “If you’re still interested in going, we can be on our way.”

Claude lets out the quietest of laughs, something between genuine amusement and shock. Byleth goes to move around him, but he catches her arm just before she can slip out of his tent.

“It’s rather rude to enter a man’s tent without asking,” he says. “You didn’t go snooping, did you?”

The air is – tense. Byleth furrows her brow and looks at him, really looks at him. There’s nothing dishonest in his expression, per say, but there’s a caution in Claude’s stance that makes her reconsider her blasé approach.

“You told me to come find you after I was done in the stocks,” she says. “But when I did, I couldn’t find you. Where else was I supposed to look?”

Claude narrows his eyes but doesn’t respond.

After a moment, Byleth relents. “No snooping,” she says. “At least, no more than you did when Leonie brought my things.”

Claude’s grip on her arm relaxes at that. “None at all, then,” he says with a cool smile.

Byleth almost frowns to see it – she thinks she could grow to hate that expression of his.

“I think I’ll do without the monster fights tonight,” Claude continues, stepping further into the tent and away from her side. “Don’t let me keep you, though – I know the rest of the guild is eager to spend the evening with you.”

Byleth hesitates, staring at his back as he goes to sit at his small table. When he looks over his shoulder at her, he’s perfectly composed – but there’s something there, something...sad, or angry, or an emotion she can’t quite place.

“Go on,” he says, voice all the softer.

And with that, Byleth goes. The cloth of the tent falls shut behind her before she thinks to turn around, and by then, the chance has passed. She can see members of Le Cerf D’or gathered at the edge of the camp and knows better, it seems, to keep them waiting.

They welcome her with open arms, and she thanks them silently for it.

When she does glance back, just the once, it’s to see light dancing in Claude’s tent.

*

That tension lingers for the next three days.

Le Cerf D’or have a few battles of their own, all of which Byleth is welcomed to join. She partakes in one, batting arrows out of the air with her sword before they can hit her new allies. It’s only on the field that the tension eases. She falls alongside Claude at the head of their small pack, covering him as he uses his dangerously golden bow to fell anyone who gets too close.

Save for those rare moments, though, they tend to avoid one another.

She’s interrogated, of course – or as much so as Lorenz, with all of his manners, can manage. He lets her take care with the information she shares: what Dimitri is like, which generals will rise in her absence, and so on. Claude attends some of these scenes, but he rarely takes part himself. Whenever Byleth glances at him, he’s studying his fingernails or taking notes in one of his many journals.

The rest of the guild is more accommodating. On her second day, Raphael takes her to the troll ball fields, where the two of them decimate the fae camp in almost unsportsmanlike fashion. Hilda drags her shopping through New and Old Town, and she comes away with more weaponry (and a few finer things) than she could have imagined.

It’s not until the day before le Grande Bataille that the political consequences – so much as they may be called so – of her abrupt kidnapping come into play.

Byleth is coming back from Old Town, coffee in her drinking horn, when she spots a familiar trio on the outskirts of Le Cerf D’or’s camp. Before she can stop herself, she’s walking faster, moving towards Annette, Felix, and -

Dimitri doesn’t so much as stutter as she falls into her old place at his side. He’s too busy, it seems, arguing down Lorenz and Hilda.

“Byleth!” It’s Annette who throws her arms around her first, nearly lifting her up despite her small stature. Byleth braces and pats her friend on the arm with something like fondness bubbling in her chest. “We were wondering where you’d gotten off to! It’s so weird for something like this to happen; we’ve missed you!”

Beside her, Felix huffs, but Byleth’s familiar with him enough to recognize this mood. He’s happy to see her – and concerned that Dimitri is not.

“As I was saying,” the lord of their guild continues, “I want to speak with Von Riegan.” He glances sidelong at Byleth and offers her a tight smile. “Now that your kidnappee is here, perhaps he’d be more amenable to a conversation?”

“And as I was saying,” replies Lorenz, sniffing, “he is busy with his own guild meeting at the moment. If you wait a little longer, we’ll retrieve him, and you can have your out-and-out.”

It’s Hilda who glances at Byleth, who’s gently extracting herself from Annette’s embrace. “Your general’s fine, after all,” she adds. “Why not say hi to her, hmm?”

Byleth recognizes the exasperated hunch of Dimitri’s shoulders. On weary impulses, she glances around for Dedue, willing his comforting presence to appear out of the bushes. Alas, it seems he’s wisely confined himself to Crête de Feu’s camp.

“Byleth,” Dimitri says, holding out his hand. Byleth steps forward and clasps it. “These two told me that you left our camp willingly.”

Dimitri’s grip is strong, but the tone of his voice – well. Byleth can never tell when he wants to play lord and when he wants to play friend. Now, it seems like he’s found a marriage of the two, binding them with his disappointment.

“I consented, yes,” she admits.

“Why?”

Byleth – pauses. From the perspective of a friend, it’s true that she’s been an absent one. From the perspective of a general, she may have an excuse, but there’s a hurt in Dimitri’s eyes that suggests that explanation won’t cover her entirely.

“Curiosity,” she settles on, at last. It’s clear from Dimitri’s unwavering expression that this explanation isn’t enough, but it’s the only one she can think of – and the only one she’s willing to give in front of such an attentive audience. “That, and the rules of the game. I was kidnapped, fair and square. I had to stay here unless you sent something to retrieve me.”

“Or you tried to escape,” Dimitri adds. “Which you didn’t.”

Byleth feels a hand come down on her shoulder. She looks back, expecting to see Annette, if not Felix. Instead, it’s Claude, covered in a thin veneer of sweat and looking for all the world like he’s come out of a novel.

It’d be enough to steal her breath under normal circumstances. It’s the shock, though – the sheer electric current running from his gloved hand through her shoulder – that takes her aback, instead. For a moment, Byleth can see the two of them doing just this: the wind in their hair, the tension between them, and Dimitri looking on, ever disapproving.

“Don’t take it personally, m’lord,” Claude says, offering Dimitri a short bow at the waist. “My guild is pretty good at keeping the people it wants in place. Blame it on our natural charisma.”

Dimitri’s eyes narrow. Something protective rears its head in Byleth’s chest.

“I believe we’ve negotiated this point already, too,” Claude adds. “Your general agreed to my terms earlier this week, and we’ve held to them since. If you’re still okay with those terms…?” He turns to look at her, the picture of carefree composure.

Byleth resists the urge to sigh. “I have no complaints about the way I’ve been treated,” she says. “Le Cerf D’or are perfect hosts – though believe me, if I’d wanted to have escaped, I could have.”

It may not be the right thing to say, but it rings true when she says it. Byleth sees Claude turn his head to hide a smile, even as Dimitri’s frown deepens.

“We would benefit from your presence,” he says, like he’s speaking to a child. “We’ve...not be doing as well on the field, without you to guide us.”

“If only because the boar needs you to reel him in,” adds Felix, speaking up for the first time since the party’s arrival. Byleth looks at him with a flash of concern, but he only shrugs.

Dimitri, on the other hand, bristles.

“We have missed you,” Annette says, doing her best to soothe the sudden tension. “I’m really glad you’re making new friends, but this – it’s kind of weird, isn’t it? I mean, I was doing some reading online. This kind of kidnapping’s only happened once or twice during Le Grande Bataille.”

“Oh?” Byleth frowns.

“It’s true.” It’s Claude, surprisingly, who answers her. “It happened once about twenty years ago. One of the transplants from Ordo Cervi kidnapped a higher-ranking member of another guild to try and help the team win the battle. It worked out well enough, but that was before all of the online measures were in place. It’s only happened once since then – though that time was less effectively.”

“Le Aigle Noir,” Annette chimes in. “Didn’t that one end with, like, three lords leaving the game?”

Claude grins, a rascal’s smile. “That’s about right. The guild leader didn’t really think her kidnapping through, and her target was...well, less willing to stay in place then you are, General.”

“This is all beside the point,” Dimitri says, drawing attention back to himself. He turns to Byleth and places a large hand on her shoulder. “My friend. You do know that if you choose to stay with Le Cerf D’or, you’ll be fighting against us in the battle to come?”

Byleth hums and places her hand on top of Dimitri’s. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Claude stiffen. “I know,” she says, giving his hand a squeeze. “And if I didn’t believe in your capabilities as a leader, I would have made more of an effort to come home.”

The world ‘home’ doesn’t quite sit right on her tongue, but she can see the way Dimitri relaxes when she says it. Maybe Claude’s silver tongue is wearing off on her.

She tucks that thought away and clears her throat. “Think of it this way: with me fighting against you, I can better point out your weaknesses.” She looks to Felix and allows her expression to slip – a moment of genuine appeal. “Consider it a training exercise.”

Felix brightens immediately, leaving Annette to giggle and Dimitri to groan. His hand slides from her shoulder, but she can tell almost immediately that he’s eased – if only a little.

“If you say so,” he says, glancing at Le Cerf D’or. “Send her back after the battle, won’t you? We at least want to take her home with us.”

It’s Hilda who shrugs, this time. “I don’t know. I kinda like her.”

“And it’s up to her when she goes,” says Claude. “But don’t worry – what le demone wants, le demone gets.”

Dimitri snorts. He sticks out his hand, it seems, before his brain has time to catch up with his body. Byleth sees him tuck away his own surprise as he stands there, waiting, it seems, for Claude Von Riegan to shake his hand.

Claude – hesitates. He’s slow to grip the other lord’s hand, but when he does, it seems to be in genuine good faith.

“I’ll see you on the battlefield,” says Dimitri. He lets go, then gives Byleth a once-over with a glimmer in his eye. “Don’t go easy on us just because we’re your friends.”

“Never,” Byleth deadpans. Dimitri brushes past her, but she can see the start of a smile lightening his features.

Annette gives her another hug before they go, and Felix waves, hand ever on the pommel of his sword. Byleth watches them start to walk back to camp, all while Hilda and Lorenz come to stand at her side.

“So,” Hilda drawls, as the others fade into the distance. “Your lord’s a bit...intense.”

Despite herself, Byleth huffs out of laugh, even as Lorenz sputters. “He’s serious,” she agrees. “But he wants the best for his friends.”

Hilda gives her a sidelong look. “And what about his more-than-friends, hm?”

Lorenz starts coughing, loudly and long enough that Hilda breaks her stare to smack him on the back. Byleth opts to ignore him, but she doesn’t miss the way Claude hovers at the edges of their conversation.

There’s no protective beast in her chest this time, but there is something...smug.

“He’s as fond of Dedue as he is of everyone else,” she says with a shrug. Claude’s shoulders drop, and Hilda lets out a giggle. “Though I wouldn’t get in his way on the battlefield. He doesn’t know his own strength.”

“Sounds like someone I want to see fight,” Claude muses. Byleth turns to see him tuck a hand under his chin. “I wonder if I can sneak onto the field today.”

It’s a rhetorical question, or so Byleth assumes, so she lets it fall by the wayside.

Their conversation putters, with Hilda hauling Lorenz off to find a drink of water. Byleth watches them go and considers following, only to feel her feet pulling her in a different direction entirely. With a nod to Claude, ever-lingering, she heads for the road and the familiarity of the river nearby.

It shouldn’t surprise her when Claude falls into step beside her, and in a way, it doesn’t. Even so, she takes a few quiet moments to compose herself before looking him in the face.

He seem at ease, of course, but there’s something to the way he carries himself that warms her from the tip of her head down to her toes.

“So,” he says, once they’re out of earshot of the others. “Dimitri and Dedue, hm?”

Byleth hums in acknowledgment.

Claude shakes his head and chuckles. “Given how protective he is of you, I would never have guessed.”

“He’s...like that,” Byleth says, biting back a sigh.

Claude chuckles beneath his breath. They walk in silence for a while longer, until Bicolline’s river slips into view. Downstream, Byleth can see young people bathing in the clear waters.

It’s here that Claude pauses, and Byleth comes to a stop out of sheer instinct. He frowns down at her, but it’s a thoughtful thing.

“Forgive me if this is a little tactless,” he says. “But I keep getting the feeling I know you from somewhere. Did we meet before all this?”

Byleth opens her mouth – then pauses.

The scene comes to her in pieces.

There’s a man on dragon-back – or is that a wyvern? - with a bow flashing in his hands. She feels the press of a kiss on her forehead as she wakes, exhausted from a night’s watch and from a year’s worth of war. The protective beast in her chest roars to life, even as her own heartbeat fails her, falling silent as her little deer spread across the battlefield -

Byleth breathes and shakes her head. Claude stares down at her, his frown deepening as she pulls herself back together.

“Strange,” he says, and oh, he’s mistaken her, but the conversation’s already moving on. “Well, Byleth, let me be blunt. I may not trust you as far as I can throw you – and believe me, I could probably throw you pretty far – but I want to.”

It’s all too much; she can’t tell whether it’s a scene or not as he stares down at her, as earnest as she’s ever seen him.

“So let’s start over,” he says. He wrenches the glove from his hand with his teeth – and oh.

Oh.

Byleth stares at his bare hand, brown with well-clipped nails, and wonders if this is what it’s like to be struck dumb.

Above her, Claude continues, oblivious.

“Hi,” he says, jostling his hand in front of her. “I’m Claude Von Riegan, Lord of Le Cerf D’or.”

It takes her too long – far too long – to take his hand in hers. When she does, the spark from earlier threatens to rock her to her core. She sees Claude’s eyes go wide, too, but focus on wrapping her comparatively-smaller hand around his.

“Byleth,” she says, gripping him tight. “General from Crête de Feu.”

They linger together, hands intertwined on the side of a worn-out road. Claude shakes himself, then pulls his hand back as though she’s burnt him.

“Byleth,” he says, voice rough as he does. “Well – let’s go swimming, shall we? I think reconnaissance on Crête de Feu can wait a while.”

In the back of her head, Byleth can see him properly: he’s standing in front of a crowd, a scarf wrapped around his head and victory written into the curve of his smile.

Her ring glints from his wedded finger.

“I’d like that,” she hears herself, today, say. “I think I’d like that quite a bit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought!


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